[Back story: On Friday the 2nd I was processing life and loneliness, the draw to create and how it breaks me. God, as usual, was being a wonderful sounding board for all my confusion and hurt. Ultimately though, I have a hard time believing Him when He says He loves when I create and fling it out into the world. And all my questions boiled down to: Then why doesn’t my art catch? Why is it not good enough-why am I not good enough- for it to be caught? What good is a half-hearted, or rather, a not-quite-good-enough, creative to Him? How can it do Him, or the world, any good if the words are spoken, the art created, and left unheard, unseen? I realized creating is the only way I know how to communicate and I angrily asked Him why He made me this way, “But why? It’s so lonely. I’m so lonely over here. I want to be heard. Creating is not fun for me, it’s heart-wrenchingly painful. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifeline.”
The picture that popped in my mind left me sobbing. I saw it all like a movie, and seeing as I can’t animate it for you, I’ll have to roughly jot it down, and hope you’ll be able to see it too:]

Art, words, pictures, poems, folded carefully into perfect little paper airplanes.
There’s a chasm and on the other side it is bustling with crowds and friends and towns.
The artist sits alone, creating then folding.
A line of pegs sit at the edge to the chasm with strings that connect to each plane. Many of the threads lead straight down into the chasm where the plane was lost. Others bridge the gap but the planes lay motionless on the other side, either trampled, neglected, or unseen. Those strings remain attached to their pegs, little feelers flung across the gap, left in silent hope. The threads hanging into the chasm with their fallen planes are eventually cut off at the peg, but only when the artist has enough heart left for a proper eulogy and grief.

She falls asleep each night on the ground facing the stakes watching with weary eyes for a twitch.

Supplies are replenished when needed; coffee brought in the morning and late into the night. Blankets are draped over her shoulders in the cold and they’re straightened as she sleeps. Shade is provided when the sun blazes or when the sky cries her tears.
And the artist creates on. Her blood compels her and her bones would snap under the weight of her heart were she to keep it all in.
So she keeps on.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Grieve, cut.
Watch, wait.
Cut, cut, cut, break.
Cry, scream, straighten, breath.
Create, fold, tie, fling.










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